It didn´t, although we did keep the hunting theme going – now we were catching piranhas! We drove our boat to a quiet spot where trees grew out of the water scattering the sunlight and creating a scenic and atmospheric environment. The setting had attracted a lot of fish too; as soon as we dipped our lines in the water the red meat on our hooks was attacked furiously. The problem was there were all so small! Their little mouths would not go over the hook, they just happily nibbled away until the meat was gone. When someone did manage to pull in a little flapping carnivore we were often told to put it back in as it would be too small to eat. It was frustrating for the others but I managed to avoid the problem by not catching anything at all. We kept at it for a couple of hours and although Josh was doing well we both pined for the richly rewarding waters for Fiji. In the end I managed to catch one piranha.

That night we got to eat our catch – they were small and bony without much meat and although, to be honest, we would have been better off eating the meat we had spent so long feeding them, there was a strange pleasure in devouring something dangerous. Still, an alligator steak would have been more filling.

The sounds of the Amazonian pampas create a fascinating and endless chorus which Oscar was eager for us to appreciate. So it was that we found ourselves floating down the river that night with the engine turned off and only the clear star lit sky illuminating our way. Fireflies flickered in the trees and birds shrieked strangely. After a while we started singing “The Lion Sleeps Tonight”. It just felt like the right thing to do.

The next morning we got up early to listen to the morning medleys. I have to confess that I wasn´t particularly interested but the howler monkeys woke me out of my sleepy stupor with their crazy banter and seeing the sun rise from the river was worth getting up for. It was our last day. We had stomped the marshlands looking for snakes, fished for piranhas in the river and driven the boat up and down admiring its diverse contents. There was only one thing left to do – swim in it.

Even with my newly acquired suicidal tendencies this part of the trip was not something I was deeply enthusiastic about but to have swum in an Amazonian river did seem something to be proud of. Besides, all we needed was to find a few pink dolphins and none of the other (more worrying) creatures would come anywhere near us. So we searched. It was the first grey morning we had seen for a while, slightly cold with the sun hidden in cloud. The banks of the river were bare and we didn´t need Oscar to tell us that the hundreds of alligators and camen were all stealthily enjoying the warmth of the river. After almost an hour of searching we had only managed to find a couple of baby dolphins who, Oscar said, were not enough protection. He had explained on the first day that if we failed to find dolphins to swim with, it wouldn´t be safe. Now, seeing our restlessness and growing impatience, he seemed to change his mind. There were after all only three people (guess who) who were stupid enough to want to go in anyway. We were in a wide part of the river where the banks were reasurringly far away but as we got undressed I couldn´t help thinking about how many dangerous reptiles must be lurking in that murky water.

Meh. This was no time for logical thought. We stood on the side of the boat and dived into the brown water. It was warm and much nicer than it looked – when I came up Josh was still standing there hugging himself. He finally managed a feeble and effeminate jump into the water, which would have probably caused me to drown with laughter had I not already been climbing back into the boat. We splashed around, laughing the kind of laugh that comes out after you get hit in the face with a football or fall over in the street, before eventually deciding we had endangered our lives enough for the day. Ironically, as we towelled ourselves down a pink dolphin made a belated appearance but disappeared again as soon as we got back in the water. They really are useless. And they look like penises.

written by  steve_stamp on July 22, 2009 from Rurrenabaque, Bolivia
from the travel blog: The art of being lost
tagged Alligators, Camen, SquirrelMonkeys, PinkDolphins, Cobra, Anaconda, Oscar, Piranha and SuicidalTendencies
Send a Compliment

---

2 comments...

Our group of around ten or twelve set off at speed, gliding down the mountain on smooth, curving roads. The whole ride was completely effortless; the pedals were merely footrests as we coasted along. The only thing which concerned me slightly was my front wheel, which rattled excitedly, even on the tarmac… I reported this ominous sound to our guide and was immediately given a new bike with better suspension and wheels which sounded a lot healthier. It was a well timed upgrade because the next part was the infamous Death Road.

Unlike Dead Woman’s Pass on the Inca trail, Death Road has earned its name with an extensive collection of tragic tales. Essentially it is a narrow, rocky road on the side of a mountain with dizzying drops and awkward bends – in the days when the road was used by buses and coaches in both directions, wheels would simply slide off the loose road and coach loads would be lost. Graves along some of the trickier curves serve as very real reminders. Now, however, a new road has been built and the traffic along Death Road consists only of tour groups rattling down on mountain bikes to earn a free t-shirt. As if insisting on giving the riders a challenge, our guide explained that the rules for this road were different and that now we would be riding on the left in the event of traffic. This, combined with the fact that the brakes were the wrong way round, added a wonderfully confusing new dimension to the ride.

I had decided to take it slowly but gravity and increasing confidence gently spurred me on. By the end we were flying down the dusty, uneven roads, our whole bodies vibrating, aching hands locked onto the handlebars and teasing the brakes. It was an intense experience made all the more epic thanks to the views of the valley. Dense cloud forest like we had seen along the Inca trail lay all around us and we rode through streams and even under a large trickling waterfall. When we came to the end I couldn’t believe we had already covered 64km! We had only one minor casualty, a lady who had had a slight disagreement with her bike and got a couple of scrapes but she looked as happy as the rest of us as we ravenously destroyed the buffet at the end of the day.

The next day the three of us attempted a more standard prison visit, citing Sebastians name as we entered the side door and looking as close to casual as one can hope to look when confronted by large men with oversized guns. They were not interested in letting us in but we were helped by a kind woman whose husband was also a prisoner and, she said, a friend of Sebastians. She offered us the use of her room in the family/visitor section of the prison and Niall took her number gratefully. As we left the woman, in a manner not quite befitting one with her baby in her arms, started offering strangers cocaine. We had met one of the prisoners outlets. It was strange to think that she was paying for a room in a prison by selling the cocaine manufactured there by her husband. I had to admit that at this point I was ready to call it a day and read Marching Powder instead.

We spent the rest of the day and much of the next admiring the alpaca jumpers of the local stalls and also checked out one of the museums which had a hilarious collection of fiesta outfits among other less bizarre exhibits. We also bought tickets to Rurrenabaque, the jungle region up North which we were all excited about seeing. For our last night we treated ourselves to an “Interminable” pizza from the famous pizzeria nearby – it was a 24 inch monster which we struggled to eat even half of. More difficult and uncomfortable than the consumption itself was the guilty journey back to the hostel trying to avoid the hungry eyes of begging families. It was worth it though, with ample cold pizza and a collection of games to keep us entertained, we boarded our bus for the longest journey so far, a bum numbing twenty hours. And they didn’t even have a toilet on board.

written by  steve_stamp on July 21, 2009 from La Paz, Bolivia
from the travel blog: The art of being lost
tagged DeathRoad, InterminablePizza and CokeDealingMum
Send a Compliment

---

comment on this...

As usual we wandered out into the streets to get a feel for the place. It seemed a very poor city, families of beggars sat on the dirty pavements and most of the shops and buildings seemed very run down or abandoned. We would later find out that beneath the surface of La Paz lies a surreal, and often strangely accessible, underworld. Wandering breathlessly up the steep streets we stumbled across our first interesting site. I began to suspect that the cluttered stalls were part of the infamous Witches Market when I noticed a pile of dead llamas. They were small – babies – and while many were still covered in fluffy hair most were dried out like prunes. Among the other things available at the stalls were herbs, statues and skulls. I had read that llama fetuses are buried under houses for good luck and I assumed these other offerings would be used in similar rituals. Disappointingly the women who looked after the stalls looked no different than those who sold alpaca slippers – there wasn’t a warty nose or a pointy hat to be seen. I decided to save the souvenir shopping for another day.

Back at the hostel we bumped into Niall, a guy who we had met in Cusco. We had only spoken briefly as he was about to catch a bus but during that short time we had hatched a plan to buy a car and drive it to Brazil. We’d decided that a VW Beetle with a novelty horn would be most appropriate. We headed ou to a bar with a few of his room mates and it soon became apparent that this was not your usual gringo bar. For a start it had no visible sign or even lights to indicate where it was. It appeared simply to be a house with large metal gates. After pushing the buzzer and waiting for a while a small, seedy looking man appeared who eyed us for a moment before letting us through. It was all very sinister and I soon realized why. A waiter carried a tray over to the table next to us and delivered two beers and a small square slate with a couple of straws and a neat wrap of cocaine. We were in a coke bar!

I was excited to see such a novel approach to customer service but soon I felt like I was having a Hunter S Thompson moment. Around the group young, pretty girls and boys were randomly kissing each other and the conversation became frantic and strange. I had been around people on coke before but they had never freaked me out like this. A blonde Irish girl was offering me a reflexology massage. I don’t even know what that is but my reflexes told me to get out of there.

In the spirit of the fascinatingly corrupt world which we now seemed to be a part of, our sites became set on the local prison – San Pedro – made famous by the book Marching Powder and by stories of tourist tours where gringos have, in the past, been able to see inside the grounds, seen prisoners openly manufacturing cocaine and even sampled the prison wares. Since CNN conducted undercover investigations these tours have been made illegal but rumors still flew around about tourists successfully bribing guards. We decided to have a look at least.

After hanging around uncomfortably for a while (the prison guards with their huge shotguns are not the most approachable of fellows) Niall and I walked up to the gate. Josh had decided that visiting a prison was not for him. From the main entrance we could see into the prison courtyard – a mix of women, children and prisoners made it only slightly less intimidating. Then we heard someone shouting to us in English. A Dutch guy, who we later found out was named Sebastian, called out to us and asked if we wanted to talk to him. He could tell us all about the prison and what goes on! We said yes. The guards said no. We were ushered away (by which I mean they looked at us and we quickly made ourselves scarce) but not before Sebastian gave us a number to call him on. It was an exciting breakthrough and a few minutes later we had another. This time an opportunity presented itself in the bizarre form of a five foot American called Dave, a prisoner with only nine days of his sentence left, who could now leave the prison for short periods of time.

Dave was genuine, there was no doubt. Barefoot and disheveled in a crusty fleece, years of dirt seemed engrained into his feet and hands. Underneath, however, was a normal guy. I had just finished reading Midnight Express and I really felt for these convicts locked away in strange and corrupt foreign surroundings. When he asked if we were interested in seeing inside the prison we said yes. We had spent an hour shuffling suspiciously outside it, it was hard to say that we weren’t. Dave told us that for twenty Bolivianos (about two pounds) he could bribe the guard and we would be allowed in as visitors. He would also want five for himself. Compared to the hundreds we were expecting to have to pay the guards this seemed a stroke of luck. We had seen lots of visitors going in and out the prison so we were confident it could be arranged. Nevertheless, it was all very dodgy…

As we followed this haggard little man towards the prison, the sense that we were doing something stupid, actually illegal, was inescapable. He took the money and disappeared into the police station to get us our visitors stickers but eventually re-emerged shaking his head and in a hurry. He explained that there were no stickers left and we would have to travel seven blocks away to get them. We only had an hour or so until the last visiting hour and we didn´t fancy a night in the prison so as Dave hurried off we hurried with him, keeping a safe distance in order to avoid the attention of the police. We grew more anxious. He asked us to buy him some chicken as he hadn´t eaten all day. He was doing us a favour so, reluctantly, we did. By now it was too late to go back – we had followed him around for about twenty minutes. Eventually we came to the place and he told us to wait for him. Then, predictably, he disappeared. We never saw Dave again. We probably deserved it. Neither of us were particularly surprised and we both knew it was always going to be a risky operation but the fact he left us holding his leftover chicken did seem an unnecessary insult.

As we stood in the middle of the busy Bolivian market I reminisced about the very first scam I had experienced on my travels. The art student from Beijing – also known as Dave. In spite of the irritating loss of money and pride, part of me was relieved. It would have been a lot more painful to be done over by a prison warden, especially if we were inside the place! We headed back and called Sebastian – he knew Dave but confirmed that we had been had – tere was no way of getting people into the prison now. We could visit a certain area, however, and talk through the bars. We vowed to do this as long as we survived the Death Road, which Niall and I were cycling the next day.

written by  steve_stamp on July 17, 2009 from La Paz, Bolivia
from the travel blog: The art of being lost
tagged Scam, SanPedro, Dave, Prison, CokeBar, Sebastian and LeftoverChicken
Send a Compliment

---

2 comments...

My (basic) understanding is that areas of land were being privatised and made available to foreign companies. The farmers working the land in these areas were understandably furious and there had been clashes with police resulting in a number of deaths. In a bid to make themselves heard, protests sprung up across Peru - roads were blocked with rocks and bridges burnt. Cuzco was targeted specifically in order to have the most impact. We had met a number of travelers who had come from Arequipa and had only made it to Cuzco by walking or hitchhiking for days over many miles after their coaches had been forced to stop. Some had to postpone their Inca treks because their feet were so badly blistered. So that ruled out Arequipa...

We decided that Puno and La Paz were the two most desirable options but the roads in that direction had also been heavily affected and any bus ride involved a certain level of risk. After much debate and solemn analysis of our shrinking bank accounts we decided to fly to La Paz. It would be worth the extra money just to know that we would actually get there. But my problems didn't end there. I received a text from my mum saying that she'd just collected my yellow fever certificate from the doctors and asking whether I wanted her to post it to Peru. I would need it to get into Bolivia.

This was slightly annoying as the nurse hadn't mentioned this certificate. I thought I had been completely organised - carrying around a print out which she had given me of all my immunisations and assuming that this was all I would need. Now I had to work out what to do. I couldn't hang around in Cuzco until it arrived by post - we had been there for so long the days were already becoming tedious, particularly now because after paying for the flight we had little money to amuse ourselves. Apparently it should be possible to sign a waiver at the border but this involved an airport discussion which I was neither comfortable with nor capable of. Eventually I decided to go to a hospital and get a replacement. It would prove to be a long and difficult morning.

I got up early and, with a list of hospitals torn out of my guidebook, made my way to the first one. The hospitals were crowded and typically confusing. Even with my new phrasebook I struggled to explain my situation and in order to save myself reliving this series of deeply uncomfortable moments I would like to skip to the part where (hours later) I found myself in the right room with the right person and the right certificate in my hand. I was going to get another jab. Then it occurred to me - I had the certificate in my hand! I could just leave! But what if I get stopped at the border? I was unsure. It had taken me three and a half hours to get to this point and I really didn't want it to all be for nothing.

A friendly nurse called me over and for the last time I attempted to explain, in Spanish which was not so much broken as destroyed beyond recognition, that I had already received the jab but did not have the certificate. I gestured to the certificate and then the door, with an expression which I hoped was something in between hopeful and inquisitive. Amazingly, she seemed to understand! She disappeared into another room. A stern looking women in a senior position asked me when I had received the jab. I showed her my print out. She shook her head. She would not be able to give me the vaccine a second time. I pointed hopefully at the certificate - my hopefully inquisitive expression became comically exaggerated. She shook her head; no injection in Peru, no certificate in Peru.

My heart sank. I should have just kept my mouth shut! I pleaded and my Spanglish reached new depths - a mix of English words in a foreign accent and Spanish words which I invented freely. I tried to explain that without this certificate it would be very difficult for me at the border into Bolivia in a couple of days. They might not even let me into the country! This came out "Sunday... Bolivia... difficult... please..." - I was sweating like a sumo in a shell suit and getting increasingly frustrated. Eventually, with a sigh, the stern woman took the certificates and filled it out with details of my previous jab. Yes! I took the certificate and thanked them desperately. Then I got out of there before they could change their minds. I had my certificate. I had my plane ticket. I was going to Bolivia.

written by  steve_stamp on July 9, 2009 from Cuzco, Peru
from the travel blog: The art of being lost
tagged YellowFeverInjection
Send a Compliment

---

1 comment...

Eventually a bulb broke the darkness and the wooden gate was opened. Floating head torches filled the path as we marched excitedly along the rugged trail. As we moved, the stars began to disappear and a faint glow crept up from behind the mountains. Josh and I were near the front of the group and I heard Selsa approaching behind us. In a low voice, careful not to excite the rest of the group, he whispered:

“Anda now we are gonna ron.”

It took me a moment in my sleepy state to work out his accent and in that moment he was gone. Running away from the group. The excitement as we ran off in the dark towards Machu Picchu was incredible – it wasn´t an easy path and we ran up and down treacherous steps with our torches flashing across the path in front of us. Gradually the glow from the mountains grew stronger and we were able to see without torches – the path was narrow and to our right hand side a sheer drop fell to the valley below where the early morning train clunked its way up, filled with tourists. This spurred us on.

Then, disaster. From behind me I heard Josh shouting desperately. I looked back to see the contents of his backpack strewn across the path. The zip had worked its way open. But Josh was only interested in one item. The single item which had gone off the edge.

“My fuckin passport..!”

His voice was filled with fear and panic. I felt it rushing through me. It felt like the worst thing that could have happened at the worst possible time. We were all in shock. Selsa repeated our swearwords and it was clear from his expression that he was as traumatized as we were as we peered over the edge into the bushes.

The path was built into the mountain side and was reinforced with a stone wall of around 8 or 9 feet. Below this wall was a small mossy platform around two feet wide which dropped into bushes and trees. The vegetation made it unclear how steep or how far the drop was but it was clear that the slope was far to steep to attempt climbing down. It was almost vertical. The ledge seemed a long way down but Selsa was already starting to lower himself off the Inca trail and down onto it, with the ominous words, “This is my first time.”

He seemed to think he could see it in the bushes. We were all terrified. The longer I saw him down there on his own the more useless I felt and when he asked me if I would come down and help him, I didn´t hesistate. I climbed down, ripping my trousers as I stretched desperately to find the mossy patch where I could secure myself. Adrenaline pumped through my whole body. I was still scared that Selsa would fall as he crept further and further towards the bushes but now at least I had hold of him. I held on to the wall with my other hand and, lying back, dug my heels into the ground.

He reached further and let out a cry. He had it! He pulled it out of the trees and we all shouted with unrestrained relief! It was an amazing feeling. We pulled each other up to safety. There were no words. Strangely no sooner were we back on the Inca trail than I was thinking of the time we had lost and wanting to get going again. Others from the group were catching us up! We dusted ourselves off and the run to Intipunktu continued. With my heart pounding and my head spinning I dragged myself up the last few steps to Intipunktu (The Sun Gate). I sat down heavily, laughing and dizzy with exhaustion. When I looked up I saw Machu Picchu.

Taking photos every few steps, we walked gently down towards the ruins. Along the path Selsa showed us a huge boulder reaching up into the sky like a mountain. Beneath it were piles of stones – offerings left by those who had arrived safely to Machu Picchu before us. We dutifully drew out our stones and created a small pile along with some of Selsa´s coca leaves. He prayed out loud and in English, thanking the Pachamama for helping us to reach Machu Picchu and although neither of us said a word, we both thanked her too. Whatever you want to call those invisible forces of nature which are beyond our control, there was no doubt that they had worked in our favour and we were extremely lucky to be there on that clear morning. Especially the passport.

With more button pressing than an Australian casino, we snapped our way down into the ruins. I will not attempt to describe them as everyone knows what the famous Inca city looks like but I will say that they were more beautiful than I had imagined and in the dim light of the morning they looked calm and undisturbed. For a while. Then I noticed the tourists. I do not mean to sound arrogant but after three days of trekking, sweating, broken sleeps and undesirable toilet experiences you feel a million miles away from the clean and colourful groups with their North Face fleeces and elaborate bumbags who come puffing up the stairs from the bus stop. To rub salt in the wounds which these people- with their confused and pitiful glances towards the flapping crotch of my filthy trousers- had opened up, we were told that the 400 tickets to climb Huayna Picchu were already sold out.

It was 6.50am. We had been up since 3.15am and had RUN along the Inca Trail risking life, limb and passport to get here first – now we find we had been beaten to the ticket office by 400 Americans wearing matching tour group t-shirts who celebrated by jumping or pretending to push the mountains in order to get the ultimate facebook profile picture. Selsa went to get a drink, Josh went to the toilet and, left alone, and I suddenly found myself in a very real state of depression. I stared in disbelief at the extravagantly expensive hotel, built only 100 yards or so from the ruins. I watched more and more tourists climbing complaining off the buses and I found myself in disbelief, hating everything around me.

In retrospect this was clearly the result of a comedown after the massive release of adrenaline that morning combined with the exhaustion of the early starts and I do appreciate that not everyone who wants to see Machu Picchu should have to walk for three days and do chilly, scenic poos. I do think, however, that a small percentage of tickets should be reserved for those who invest time and money in the Inca Trail. And there I will end my beef. Incidentally, my depression didn´t last long. As we climbed back up p the top of the ruins for our first lesson of the day my mood lifted immeasurably. This was no doubt helped by the well timed appearance of the sun which, as it climbed slowly from behind the jagged mountains, cast spectacular beams of light onto Machu Picchu and Huayna Picchu. As Selsa taught us about the history of the city, it lit up slowly behind him.

We toured the various points of interest and significance, waiting patiently for other tour groups to finish taking photos before we moved in to take our own. Luckily the city is interesting enough that the swarms of tourists do not detract too much from your appreciation but after a couple of hours, with more and more groups arriving by the minute, we had seen everything and were ready to leave. We thanked Selsa for all his knowledge and passion and for going, so dramatically, beyond the call of duty as our guide. Our tips seemed pathetic but he seemed moved and genuinely thankful for our time together. It was a sad goodbye but his final words “Look after your passport!” were well chosen.

We got a bus down to Aguas Calientes where we ate well and relaxed in the hot natural springs which give the town its name. Then we hung around waiting for the big group and the three hour train ride home, every now and then reminding each other exactly what had happened that morning. Ironically it had been the expensive Berghaus backpack which had been at fault while my ridiculous Peruvian manbag (I was dressed completely inappropriately as ever) handled the challenge without any complaints. On the long journey home, tired from the days emotions, I thought about my life back home and especially Shion. I had never wanted a bed and a cuddle so much in my life. I couldn´t wait to talk to her and tell her what we´d been doing.

written by  steve_stamp on July 8, 2009 from Aguas Calientes, Peru
from the travel blog: The art of being lost
tagged Tourists, IncaTrail, MachuPicchu, Passport, Selsa and HotWaterSprings
Send a Compliment

---

3 comments...

We were also told the plans for the next day. We would be getting up in the middle of the night and walking the 6km to Machu Picchu for sunrise. We asked whether we would have any chance of climbing Huayna Picchu, the mountain which rises over the lost city affording amazing views, Selsa explained that the number of daily visitors is restricted to 400 and these tickets disappear fast. In order to have we would have to move very quickly. We both agreed it was worth a try.

written by  steve_stamp on July 3, 2009 from Ollantaitambo, Peru
from the travel blog: The art of being lost
tagged IncaTrail, Porters, Poo, Packs, Pachamama and Illness
Send a Compliment

---

1 comment...

We arrived five days before the start of our Inca trek which we had booked so many months ago (luckily, because the next available trek was in three months time!) and we stayed in a highly recommended hostel called Loki (we had also stayed in Loki, Miraflores) which was on a steep but utterly beautiful cobbled street overlooking the city. The hostel itself is a beautifully converted 450 year old building and the views are unbelievable, especially considering the fact that we were paying six quid a night. Like Loki in Lima (where we played football, beer poker, etc) the hostel offered a range of activities, an optional evening meal and a noisy bar crowded with young travellers all wearing the same alpaca jumper.

Purely by chance our visit to Cuzco coincided with Inti Raymi, the ancient Inca festival of the winter solstice, and we were greeted with excited crowds and colourful parades featuring costumed dances and elaborate floats with giant models representing Inca legends. Even without this wonderful display, the history of the city is reflected spectacularly in the elaborate colonial architecture of the Spaniards and in the resilient Inca walls and arches which seem to be part of almost every street.

Being invaded by the Spanish and then by the tourists has led to a cosmopolitan, if slightly tragic, new South American city where local women sell their wares outside quirky Irish pubs and the Inca ruins indifferently upstage the grandeur and pomp of the invaders that wiped them out. Beyond the terracotta roofed houses which climb up the hillsides around the city there are a number of Inca sites and our most rewarding outing involved visiting a number of these.

We took a public bus (our first in South America!) up to Tambo Machay where ceremonial water fountains flow out of the stone and are fed by a mysterious hidden channel of unknown origin. We then walked down to Puka Pukara, which offered us amazing views of the region, and Quenqo – where I was told off for climbing up to look at some of the more interesting but admittedly dangerous carvings. I was enjoying wandering around these scenic sites in the mountains but I was not blown away until we got to Saqsayhuaman. Here giant rocks weighing up to 130 tons are fitted together perfectly to form imposing and impressive walls – the stonework is so staggering that apparently the Spanish refused to believe that the Incas could possibly have been capable of such construction and even today there are those who have other worldly theories and explanations. These are people whose hobbies include online gaming and tripping off the local cacti and they are probably best ignored but they do underline the unbelievable feats that the Incas achieved.

The view from Saqsayhuaman is probably the best way of seeing Cuzco in its glorious entirety. We walked home along a cobbled pathway gazing lovingly at the city in front of us until we were once again consumed by its narrow stone streets and the buzz of the celebrations grew louder and louder. With the climax of the festivities the next day, an event which I understood involved most of Cuzco making the journey up to Saqsayhuaman to witness a llama having its heart and lungs torn out by a priest, we decided to have a quiet night – taking part (and winning!) the hostel pub quiz. My only useful contribution was our team name, Inca- pacitated, which I had thought of the day before and was, in truth, the only reason I particularly wanted to take part.

I awoke the next day to find that Josh, in his usual way, had got up ridiculously early and disappeared. He had gone up to the ruins (where the parade would eventually be marching and the final ceremony taking place) five hours early. I had no desire to spend ten hours on a hillside so I was pleased to discover a note on my bed from Nicole, a fun loving self proclaimed pothead from Philly, telling me to meet her in the Plaza de Armas. I headed down there with Mia and spotted Greg, a laid back and hilarious American whose first words upon seeing me were “I thought I´d be able to spot your tall white ass.” It seemed he had also received the same message from Nicole and when she appeared we spent a bit of time watching the strange performances in the Plaza de Armas before following the herd up to the ruins.

The crowds were filtering in constantly and the hillsides were covered in hundreds of local families and a sprinkling of tourists wearing suncream and ridiculous paper hats. Well, we were anyway. We found a spacious spot where we had a decent view and could also stretch our legs out and made ourselves comfortable for an hour or so, eating anything and everything that the numerous sellers brought our way and admiring the colourful spectacle of the colourful crowd blanketing the bold ruins.

Eventually music began to echo around the site and the dancers, soldiers, Inca leaders, princesses and flower throwers arrived in flawless formation and began their elaborate performances. This lasted around 3 hours and although I was impressed by the choreography and energy of the dancers, the crowd provided just as much entertainment. Everyone around us seemed to have a plate full of potatoes with a guinea pig balanced on top, ice cream sellers squabbled over turf and as the crowd grew increasingly dense we found ourselves becoming amusingly intimate with our neighbours and our outstretched legs being gradually pushed back towards us by shuffling Peruvian bums.

Disappointingly the slaughter of the llama was carried out in a suspiciously secretive manner – with people huddling over something and then holding up something which was supposed to be heart or lungs - I wasn´t convinced. I was hoping for a much more gruesome climax but being part of the biggest Inca celebration was nevertheless a memorable privelage. After another evening sampling the alcoholic and musical offerings of Cuzco I retired to bed wondering whether Josh´s early ride and five hour wait on the hill had paid off and provided him with a better view of the llama sacrifice. It hadn´t.

The next day we moved to a fancy hotel which was included as part of our trek and rented some walking boots in order to preserve my disintegrating trainers and my stoic feet. They would, after all, soon be facing their greatest challenge. The Inca Trail.

written by  steve_stamp on June 25, 2009 from Cuzco, Peru
from the travel blog: The art of being lost
tagged Saqsayhuaman, Inca, Cuzco, IntiRaymi, TamboMachay, PukaPukara, Quenqo and LlamaSacrifice
Send a Compliment

---

8 comments...

The tourists were not the only thing lacking in this desert - from the top of the mirador we were afforded a vaguely impressive look at what was apparently a tree (I thought it looked more like an inbred octopus) and something else which was either hands or a lizard but appeared to be neither. Slightly disheartened, we climbed a small hill which also promised a better perspective but in fact delivered the opposite. We were looking at nothing but an endless expanse of desert. I had already done this tour. It was still only 7.30am. Eventually we returned to he hostel for breakfast where we studied the Nazca lines in much more detail on a souvenir sugar bowl.

The city of Nazca is nice enough and seemed particularly well maintained after Pisco. Before our evening bus to Cuzco we hung around the streets drinking mate de coca (which I hoped would help with the impending altitude sickness) and spent an hour in the Museo Antolina. The museum was very informative and managed to arouse the enthusiasm towards archaelogy which had eluded me during my scathing analysis of the lines the day before. They even had a scaled down model of the lines so you can wander around them feeling like Gulliver and finally get a sense of their complexity.

Full of tea and anticipation, we got on our bus. This was to be the most arduous journey so far in spite of our coca consumption which continued on the bus in the form of leaves. When we came finally came over the mountains and looked down upon the huge sprawling Inca capital it was a beautiful site to see, even whilst miserably trying to solve the problem of how to shit and throw up at the same time.

Allow me to interrup that image with a more uplifting diversion. So far I am aware that I have represented the effects of altitude in a rather negative light. However, some of the less hysically devastating effects are actually quite funny. Your spongebag, for example, becomes boobytrapped - full of exciting surprises when you next take a shower or brush your teeth. The pressure is such that when you open a sealed container, the contents are often lavishly ejaculated in whichever direction it happens to be facing. My favourite incident so far was when my roll-on deoderant fired its plastic ball at me. The pop of this fragrant little plastic cannon was one of those comedy noises that you don´t imagine actually exist in real life and it made me very happy. Incidentally- with regard to the aforementioned problem on the bus - I managed, after much soul searching and pre-natal style breathing exercises, to keep my bodily fluids to myself.

written by  steve_stamp on June 22, 2009 from Nazca, Peru
from the travel blog: The art of being lost
tagged NazcaLines and AltitudeBoobytraps
Send a Compliment

---

1 comment...

We spent the afternoon being shown around the National Park which was, rather strangely, a desert on the coast. In spite of some beautiful cliffs, this was a bit of a disappointment. By the end of the tour it had become a comedy sketch - the guide taking us from one barren expanse of sand to another and struggling to rouse anything close to interest from even the most dedicated members of the group. Typically the museum was in ruins - another victim, we were told, of the earthquake two years ago. It was shocking to see how little the area had recovered, even in it´s prime tourist spots. The final anticlimax was flamingos - or at least that is what we were assured they were. They were so far away they could easily have been grizzly bears for all I knew, nevertheless we amused ourselves by feigning enthusiasm with other members of the tour.

The next part of our journey took us further South into this desert region. Soon the gentle plains became huge mountainous dunes and we arrived in Ica just as the sun disappeared behind the largest of them. It was a spectacular but also slightly disconcerting site - we were here for the sandboarding and I had no idea the dunes would be so imposing. With this in mind we got some boards the next morning (and a tutor who seemed to just want someone to hang out with) and made our way to one of the smaller dunes to practice falling over and see if we could master the art of minimalising oral sand intake. We had signed up for a dune buggy ride and sandboarding later that afternoon and the idea was that we would do all this in private before we started making fools of ourselves in larger groups.

In fact it was fairly simple to stay up while flying down a sandy slope and although neither of us were able to turn, slow down or have any real control over where we were going, by the time the afternoon came we were confidently surfing down with the best of them.The slopes became increasingly large until we were basically sliding down a mountain of sand from top to bottom in a matter of seconds. We lay on our fronts and used our legs to steer or slow down (although no-one seemed to be interested in either) and shot off at ridiculous speeds, screaming into the distance and shrinking to specks as we reached the bottom.

We were driven around the dunes in a dune buggy and although I hadn´t anticipated this part of the experience to be of any great significance, it turned out to be the highlight. Because we had chosen a later excursion the sun had started setting as we were sandboarding and now, as we hurtled around the dunes, the low orange sun cast beautiful shadows across the immense landscape and we could see the lights of the towns which sit comfily nestled in between the dunes. These tranquil images, particularly that of the palm fringed oasis of Huacachina, were juxtaposed wonderfully with the manic roar of the dune buggy which bounced and skidded as it flew up and down the dunes. It was like being on a really fast, really dangerous rollercoaster - which is, I assure you, a good thing, particularly when you make it safely home to the hostel.

The near death experiences continued into the night - an earthquake disturbing the peace of early morning. True to form, I paid it no attention whatsoever. I was only interested in resting up for some more sandboarding and when I finally woke we rented two snowboards - a progressive step as these are larger, faster and have better control than the wooden boards they give you otherwise. We spent the afternoon climbing up the larger dunes and coasting down again. Josh tired quickly - which I suggested was surely a sign that he should stop getting up early - but I could not stop, I pushed myself to go higher and higher. I was completely addicted.

A sandboarding joke was doing the rounds which I liked because you can pretty much apply it to any sport or hobby. It goes:

What is the hardest part of sandboarding?
Telling your parents your gay.

If I was being pedantic I would point out that actually the hardest part is trudging up the steep sand slopes in the baking hot sun - as much as we enjoyed going down the dunes, summoning the energy to climb them was proving difficult and eventually I had exhausted even my deepest reserves. After two days we were bruised and aching for a new setting.

written by  steve_stamp on June 17, 2009 from Huacachina, Peru
from the travel blog: The art of being lost
tagged Desert, Dunes, Sandboarding, Earthquake, Birds, Penguins and SealionsAndPelicans
Send a Compliment

---

2 comments...

We stayed there one night and I found myself a local attraction on more than one occasion. During one amusing incident the entire giggling contents of the local girls school emptied out onto the street in front of us. I must confess that I am completely used to this by now and in fact quite enjoy my role as the local freak. I amuse myself by saying hello and conversating with as many embarrassed and giggling people as possible, I even did a few kick ups with a group of local boys who were stunned to see that my remarkable frame was capable of any form of athleticism.

Leaving my fans behind, we climbed aboard an overnight bus to Pisco. This was a rough eight hour journey, the whole bus shook with a deafening rattle and a constant exchange of passengers meant that the lights flicked on and off along with loud music. At 3am someone said something about Pisco and after asleepy and confused exchange with the driver we grabbed our things and jumped off the bus. Everything, that is, but my phrasebook which I discovered had fallen out of my pocket while I had slept. To say I was devastated was an understatement. I felt like I had left my tongue behind.

We checked into a hostel in a run down street and caught up on some sleep. Walking out the next morning I realised it was not simply a bad choice of hostel - the whole of Pisco was in a terrible state. It looked like some sort of apocalyptic nightmare - every building was in a state of disrepair, mangy looking dogs wandered between piles of rubble and bricks in the street. I was amazed that I had not heard anything about this, there was no mention in the guide but I was told that the city had suffered a devastating earthquake two years ago. We wandered around aimlessly (as we tend to do) and booked ourselves on a trip to the nearby Paracas Nature Reserve and Ballestas Islands, which are tiresomely referred to as "the poor mans Galapagos", then we headed back to our hostel and did the only thing there is to do in Pisco - waited to leave.

written by  steve_stamp on June 14, 2009 from Pisco, Peru
from the travel blog: The art of being lost
tagged MountainFreakShow and PiscoApocalypse
Send a Compliment

---

1 comment...